


The Victory Garden: a WWII AU

by ONJ



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - World War II, F/M, Multi, Soulmate AU, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmate-Identifying Timers, WW2, World War 2, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-05-31 23:50:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6492709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ONJ/pseuds/ONJ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1940: Mycroft and Anthea live and work at Bletchley park. Soulmates (according to the countdown marks on their wrists), the pair have to overcome more than just the wartime struggle to finally accept destiny. (Soulmate AU set in WW2)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Asclepias Incarnata

By 1939, the ministry of communication was a vestige of the past. Central and public, the office sat amongst other government agencies in a building that was older than the freedom of the American colony from the tyrannical rule of the King George- the same freedom that was catalyzed by the tax on tea by the very British who institutionalized the tea-time as a cornerstone of society. Anthea pondered the traps of mercantilism as she carefully set the Minister's tea in front of him. She wasn't his secretary, nor was she at the bottom of the office power structure, but she had been too preoccupied to tell him off for asking her, and she had been getting herself some. Anthea's eyes flicked to his free wrist as his left hand scratched notes into the paper. He was listening to a private communication-transmission and transcribing the notes in a poorly-penned Japanese. His mate-mark was more delicate than most, she observed. It was barely visible in it's freshly scarred state. She didn't know that the minister was a widower... Anthea looked down at her own wrist, peeling up the edge of her thin, delicate moss-green glove. Her countdown was drawing nearer- her stomach dropped to it's pit as she flipped her eyes back up to the Minister's notes, reading his scratch upside-down. 956 female suicides internationally. The Minister's hand shook as he lifted his tea to his lips. So, it was that bad. 

Anthea was one of the lucky ones- her scores overqualified her for her work, securing her position. At 21, she had been notable enough to be plucked from University and given an aptitude test by an unnamed agency of government affiliation. She was the only woman in the room, and the second to finish. Anthea was the first student to ever receive a perfect score. But back when she took the test, she wasn't called Anthea. Born to Jewish-Austrian aristocrats at the end of the great-war, she was given the gift of a name before she was packed away in a box of Austrian chocolate meant for English consumption. She was discovered and registered with the offices of births and deaths as Rosalie Silverman Rothschild of the Vienna Rothschild family, based on the small golden-leafed name tag pinned to her silk newborn swaddle. She wasn't special. Hundreds of children were surrendered with varying degrees of attention, and as the first global conflict came to a slow, painful halt, Anthea (then Rosalie) was taken in by a sympathetic pair of English aristocrats to live with them at their country estate. By her tenth birthday, the Whitfields knew that the child they had selected was special. She was advanced beyond her adoptive brothers in arithmetic, fluent in Latin, French, Japanese and welsh (because of her wet-nurse), and she was quick to adopt new skills, like music and dance. The Whitfields fostered her gifts, and when they presented her to society, they changed her name. Anthea Rosalie Whitfield was presented to a young Prince George. She was the smash-hit of her season, and the belle of Northern society. But that wasn't enough. It wasn't long before her intelligence was discovered and Anthea set out to find herself a place in the world. The Whitfields, a dying breed, cast her out for squandering their gift of opportunities, and by the time she was 23, Anthea was alone, with only her work at the bureau sustaining her. 

Finally, the minister hung up, taking a deep breath before he read his notes to Anthea. "December 13th 1939. Yesterday we send men to their first significant battle, and today there is a rash of soulmate-suicides." Anthea gulped, wanting to look at her mark again to be sure. She didn't, and the feeling passed. "And your services are required elsewhere. You'll be registered as a member of her majesty's military services in the morning." Anthea's jaw stiffened a bit as he reread his notes to insure their accuracy. His eyes were sad, but he managed a smile. "It's a promotion based on your record here. You're needed at the diagnostics, predictive and foreign relations building... Bletchley offices. Someone saw your scores and decided you'd be perfect as-" he stopped reading, taking off his glasses. Anthea felt illness wash over her. "They outrank me. They want you as their personal assistant and secretary." She shook her head. "I won't do it. I won't be degrad-" he cut her off, absently touching his mate-mark with the fondness of a man who had successfully entrusted his joy to it. "Your service is mandatory and of the highest priority. Either you go, or you're 'out' for merely knowing about it. I'm sorry..." Anthea cut him off in turn " I should've seen this coming... What kind of... Moron would want someone of my skill as a... Bloody secretary... I mean..." The pain in his face startled her into silence.She stood, and he walked to the door, opening it for her. She shook his hand, feeling a wave of misery wash over her. 

Anthea lived in a residence just a few blocks away. She wiped the tears from her eyes as her feet fell in double-time. Up, up, up the stairs, past her floor-mates and women chattering idly, all of their marks covered by gloves or sleeves. Why was it, that mate-marks could only be seen when you had met your mate? Why was the countdown considered so unbecoming of a lady? Today, 956 women had killed themselves because their countdowns had stopped, then, scarred, turning grey or pale as an indication of soulmate death. There was no doubt that this would only increase, Anthea mused, tearing her gloves off in the privacy of her bedroom. Soulmate marks (mate-marks), were a human evolution. Everyone possessed the fine row of digits, ten marks long. Month, day, year, and time by the hour. They changed, shifting backwards and forwards to zero. As children, the inky color of the mate-mark varied. Anthea's had been a baby blue. According to Mrs.Whitfield, when she was five years old her mark had turned to grey and faded out for a few fluttering seconds as her mate fell in and out of death. As she aged into her matured skin and graduated into adulthood, the mark had turned black, the time hopping backward and forward as her mate and herself experienced separate life journeys. Finally, Anthea examined the clock, surprised by her own fascination with the tortuous thing. 

1939/17:45:08

The time had skipped ahead during her walk, she noted, trying to push away the dull sensation of butterflies in her stomach. So, at her new post she would meet her soulmate. Her tears dried as she stared at the countdown. In seventeen hours she would meet the man who shared her dreams. She had always felt close to him because of it. Dreams were a one-way link to soul mates, and each night, she transcribed everything he projected towards her. She loved the man already- although he wasn't nearly as romantic as she would've liked. He dreamed of work, and never of her. She dismissed it, picturing a captain of her own age, fair in complexion and jovial in spirit. She packed her things as it started to rain. Maybe this demotion-by-another-name could be a good thing for her life in the long term. She fell asleep, catching his dream of watching the stars from a lawn, and resenting her new boss.   
...  
Mycroft Holmes had just completed the most complex political operation of his life. At 40 years old, he was young to be a commander, and a A field-Marshall in army title, but incredibly old to have not yet met his soulmate. He now spearheaded a 'communications' division. They were members of MI6- the Government Code and Cypher School (GC&CS)- and he was best in his class. He had fought through the first Great War, and he feared another. But his bitterly disappointing life had permanently altered his outlook. He was born with the mark of a widower, and maintained that same blank mate-mark until he was 14. This had hardened him. He resented his soulmate for causing him to experience the constant taunting and mockery that he had endured in childhood. A few years gap was average and expected, but that wait had destroyed him. During that time, he had closed himself off from emotion. Now, he sat, picking anxiously at the edge of his memo paper. He still had the file for her on his desk. His new secretary. The smartest woman employed by the crown, and the most loyal- given her record. Not to mention her linguistic skills, and oh. It was unlike him to fail to notice her age. What a torturous coincidence; this woman was 14 years his junior. He pushed away all of the thoughts of that kind. The Iceman wasn't called the Iceman for his cold hands, but rather, his demeanor. Still, in this moment of solitude he wondered- Mycroft cast an eye under the cuff of his shirt. The view was obstructed, so he convinced himself to pursue frivolity no further and look back at the woman's file. She would help him, he knew that much. He couldn't have known how right he was.


	2. Gloxinia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthea and Mycroft meet for the first time. Things don't go so well.

Mycroft was in his office, pacing a light-footed trail back and forth on the cherry-wood floor. He was nervous. Why was he nervous? After a few hours of withholding his energies, Mycroft had quickly surmised that Miss Anthea Jones, his new PA from the communication bureau was his soulmate. He chastised himself for being a fool, and turned to self consciously check his face in the semi-reflective surface of his bookcase door. Though his reflection was slightly warped by the old glass's slouching plane, he checked between his teeth and fixed the part in his hair. He knew she was coming. His girl. For a moment, Mycroft allowed himself to feel a spark of possibility and excitement under the heavy weight of resentment he irrationally felt towards her. She had drained him of his hope and stolen any joy he could've had in childhood. But that wasn't her fault... Of course not. When he was fourteen and he first saw the baby blue countdown appear on his arm, he swore that he would never succumb to the weakness he had dismissed as folly as a child. He would never swoon or kiss or make love to anyone... And he would be comfortable alone. Mycroft headed to the station. 

Soulmates share two distinct features. The first is a countdown. On the wrist, children share a mark in a similar color, but as they age, that color turns black. If a soulmate is not alive, the mark grows faded or grey. If people meet their soulmates, the digits level out to zero but the numbers maintain their color. Timers skip around. Not much, but they do. The second feature all soulmates share is a collective unconscious mind, which allows each person access to the dreams of the other. 

Mycroft fell in love with his blue girl because of her dreams. Fiercely loyal and smart as a whip, she was a romantic lover of Shelley and Keats, an avid reader, and a woman who had lived a life so heavy with burden that she often had nightmares which blended memories with her fears, which she faced with courage and dignity. He wanted to protect her...and now he could- After he put a professional distance between the two of them and insured that she found happiness elsewhere.   
\----  
The time had come. Late from her slightly delayed departure, but dressed impeccably, Anthea walked onto the train's platform with an assortment of bags and hat boxes clumsily carried on her arms. She scanned the crowd and held onto her hat with a velvet gloved hand as she winced to see more clearly. She was looking for Field Marshall Holmes. The man who decided that the highest female IQ in bureau history was best suited as a personal assistant. The man who uprooted her life. The man who... Anthea's world slowed to a complete stop, and her arms fell limp with the sudden wash of shock. Not even the clatter of boxes against the ground could break the multifaceted connection she felt toward the impeccably dressed man smoking a Marlboro light and checking his appointment journal just a few feet away. The man in gabardine was leaning on an old umbrella, the delicate ivory handle peaking out between his broadly knuckled and ring-adorned fingers. Anthea melted, her eyes falling to her wrist, half instinct and half hope. Four seconds. Her wrist was all zeros, except the final number, which counted down until Anthea looked up. She met the stranger's eyes, not quite realizing how much of a scene she had caused by dropping her things. Still, she stood, completely silent. Dumbstruck by him. By all of it. Until she remembered the whole purpose of her presence on the platform. Without a word to the man before her, Anthea collected up her things and began a quick scan of the crowd for a man in uniform- someone wearing the livery of a Field-Marshall. Finally, her soulmate took a step forward. Though the move was slow and calculated, Anthea still jumped as he moved in her periphery. His voice was low and posh, and he extended a hand out for her to shake.   
"Field Marshall Holmes- Mycroft- Mycroft. You must be Miss Jones." 

Anthea's seemingly endless smile fell, and her hand, which was free, closed like a clam onto itself. Oh. She could feel the tears beginning to pool in her eyes as she realized what was going on. Mycroft Holmes was her soulmate. The man who ripped her from her work and gave her the unskilled task of managing his calendars was... Destined to be hers? It couldn't be. Anthea touched the corner of her eye to collect the water, and finally took his outstretched hand with her gloved one, giving it a firm, masculine shake. "I am." Was the only reply she could manage.

Mycroft knew from the moment he saw her that keeping himself from loving her would be a challenge he could not win. The way she moved and spoke and squeezed his hand sent shockwaves of affection down his spine. SNAP OUT OF IT. She was right beside him in the back of the car, obviously upset. Her things, which had not fit in the trunk, flooded over, making a pile between them. He tried not to assume that she had gotten one look at him, realized they were soulmates and gotten upset, but it certainly appeared that way. He reached out to pat her shoulder, but not before he gazed at the black zeros which had appeared on his wrist just as he met her mysterious eyes for the first time. Was silence normal for soulmates? He pondered his insecurities about the situation. Was any of this normal? She seemed so angry at him... Didn't soulmates usually kiss during their first meeting? Why was she crying? Finally, he couldn't take it anymore.

"Have I offended you?" His voice broke the silence within the car.   
Anthea frowned deeper, her eyes unforgiving as they met his. "Do you think I am a silly woman, Mr.Holmes? Do you think we exist during a time where silliness would be condoned and accepted? Certainly not. I am smart, and I know myself to be so... So why is it that I am here, at your side, when I should be fighting the good fight at the ministry of communication?" Suddenly she found herself completely mesmerized by him, and she deliberately looked away, sheepishly looking out into the sprawling forest of the English countryside. He sighed and rapped his fingers against the ledge for a while, realizing that perhaps she wasn't completely sure why she was there.  
"It's Field Marshall Holmes. And you aren't here to be my personal assistant in the traditional sense. You're to be my right hand man- that is, unless you aren't interested." She responded to him with tempered silence, turning towards him with eyes which simultaneously begged forgiveness and commanded respect. He got lost for a moment in how they seemed to convey both before he remembered that she was his coworker. And she was infuriating. And she was perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Thank you for reading! Again, this is super low quality and I apologize!! If you have suggestions you can message me on tumblr: Historyaesthetics or leave me a note here! 
> 
> PS: Chapter names are flower symbols!!


	3. Daffodils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1940: Anthea and Mycroft are pulled further apart. After two years they have yet to kiss, hold hands or share a personal conversation.  
> Bletchley becomes a bigger community and the school of codes grows.

June 22, 1940  
It was a distinctly hot summer. The air was thick, and the high emotional tension left a scent of stress and fear in the air. It had been two years since Anthea began her work at Bletchley, and as the staff began to increase and the operation formalized, she found a growing emotional release from the hell that her life had become by throwing all of her energy into her work. After her first confrontation with Field Marshall Holmes, he completely closed himself off to her- which caused her to lash out in anger at him. Just two days after her arrival at Bletchley, Anthea stopped wearing gloves into work, varnished her nails red, wore short sleeved blouses and shamelessly flashed her mark as any happy, matched woman would. This subtle act of revenge was not so subtle to Mycroft. As their team grew more comfortable and familiar, questions about soulmates cropped up and curiosity surrounding Anthea's soulmate grew. She wore her mark with such calculated attempts at showing it off that attention was successfully drawn to it. Before she could ever answer any queries, however, Mycroft would fly into a rage, demanding that the team refocus. He painted himself as a villain, knowing full well that he was making a fool of himself. He couldn't help himself around her.

There is only one pub in Bletchley. This tavern, outfitted with a seventeenth century cellar and a large dance floor was the center of all activity after working hours. Men and women broke bread at the only restaurant in town, ending the night in drunken song or with a quiet dance. Six months after her arrival, Anthea had grown so emotionally damaged from what she felt to be Mycroft's rejection that she ate at a separate table from the decryption team, simply because Mycroft sat with them. It wasn't long before she was noticed, mistaken for a widow, and asked to dance by one of the more handsome Americans who had crossed over to meet with Churchill about the code-talker program in the U.S. He swept Anthea off her feet, dancing with her for hours. He was kind, but he didn't make her heart flutter. His hands wandered, but Anthea's self worth and steady alcohol consumption blended into a toxic poison which kept an air of tepid apathy about-her as he led her behind the building for a bit more heavy petting. Mycroft, who had grown sick of seeing Anthea groped on the dance floor, ventured outside to give her an earful I'm private, only to find the American with his hands clamped around Anthea's throat, her dress ripped and her lip freshly split. Mycroft beat him so badly that the American left England blind in one eye and lacking feeling in his right arm. Anthea was flung under a fog of depression. With no one to lean on, she wallowed. After the incident, Anthea, who had once had a naturally attractive cynicism and a glow of wit and curiosity seemed to fade and shrink into her work. She grew silent, avoided Mycroft and began answering questions about her soulmate with a rehearsed answer: "He chose to live without me. He looked at me and decided that mine was a face he could not love". She believed every word.

It took nearly sixteen months- but Anthea finally began extending beyond her shell. After long a May, punctuated by a failing fight in France and weakened confidence in the blossoming allied forces, she came around to cracking jokes to lighten the anxiety of the collective. She was welcomed back by all except Mycroft, who had grown even more distant over the years. June 1940 had been hot- but no day was hotter than the twenty-second. Hefty footsteps moved closer and closer to Anthea's head as her eyes flitted open against the beating yellow sun. She was reclining on the grass under a large, knotted oak. After all, work had been canceled because of the heat, and while most had sought a dip in the pond on the property, Anthea chose rest in quiet solitude, drifting asleep after hours of reading from her wrinkled copy of Pride and Prejudice. As the footsteps gained weight and slowed in speed, Anthea sat up, holding her adjusting eyes from the sun with her palm. She was surprised to see the figure in front of her, but she didn't wince or flinch. "May I?" Mycroft's voice sent goosebumps up her arms. She nodded calmly, and he sat down, his shockingly bare feet just a thumbs width away from hers. His toes sought the cool of the grass as Anthea averted her gaze from him, her eyes unable to focus on the storage shed just a few yards away. His eyes seemed to burn holes in her cheek as he yearned to meet hers.  
"I'm glad I'm here. I miscalculated. Bletchley is perfect for me and I'm honored to be the linguistics expert on the team and I'm happy that no one with authority has asked me to fetch them coffee or take a message for them. I thank you for the opportunity." Her rambling, rehearsed speech broke the silence, and he dropped his eyes to his hands as a response. His lip wobbled before he spoke, and for a split second he was relieved that she wouldn't look at him, because at least she wouldn't see his weakness. His affection. His longing.  
"You earned the opportunity...." He trailed off as he started watching as her own own gaze fell to her small, calloused hands, which had grown arthritic from writing and typing from days on end. She never complained about the pain, but he could see it in her eyes and it hurt him. Again, Mycroft spoke, trying to push the thought of her pain out of his mind. "I think about you constantly. It's... Not efficient. I know you hate me, but for the sake of the mission, which we both love... Can I look at your eyes?"  
Anthea felt the anxiety in his voice, and recalled their first meeting, the electricity that had danced up her spine when she first met his eyes. She rotated her gaze, blinking a few times before she scanned his face and met his eyes, her lips parting as she leaned forward, her lips just inches from his, her eyes still open. Warm air danced upon his lips as she mumbled "for the mission. Yes."  
Mycroft's breathing hitched- the world spinning as he was brought to happiness for the first time in months. His eyes slid shut and he leaned in for the prize. A kiss from his soulmate, his blue girl. His poet.  
She pulled her head back, pushing herself up to standing before their lips made contact. Anthea brushed off her skirt and ran off- remembering the way Mycroft had looked at her before he beat the sight out of the American. Remembering the philosophy she lived by: "He chose to live without me. He looked at me and decided that mine was a face he could not love."  
"Miss Jones, Please!" He exclaimed, his voice wobbling as he remembered her initial reaction to hearing his name and the way his voice seemed to drive her out of the room. Her earmarked copy of Pride and Prejudice sat at Mycroft's feet, the warm breeze flipping the pages. Mycroft stared at it for a while before he picked it up, carefully handling the copy as he picked his name off of one of the pages. In the margin she had written: 'Elizabeth loves Darcy despite the fact that she believes that she hates him. I love Mycroft but I want to hate him. I hate how much I think about him. I hate it when he goes to London, but I am driven out of the room when I hear his voice because I can scantly control my gazes or my longing'.  
Mycroft snapped the novel shut, realizing that he had stumbled upon her journal as well. The reality of what he had just read sank in, and he stood in silence, the heat slowing his movements as he made the walk back to his quarters to do some reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, please don't hesitate to leave me critiques, notes and suggestions. Actually, I really would love some feedback! Also, I'm sorry for not updating in a while and for the generally low quality of my writing! 
> 
> \- Olivia


	4. The Orchid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Continuation of chapter 3) Anthea and Mycroft are caught in a rather terrifying situation which leads to a long awaited conversation. Will their new found dynamic last?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is saucy but not explicit.   
> The author welcomes negative and positive feedback, but she really lives for feedback. One kind or unkind word could really make her day- and as always, chapter suggestions are recommended. 
> 
> (Sorry that I suck, thank you so much for reading!)

Though the evening brought a welcome chill and mild shower over Bletchley, Anthea remained agitated and uncomfortable. After hours of pacing and reviewing her seemingly minimal interactions with Mycroft, she collapsed onto the mattress, put a record on and lit a cigarette. The sounds of Cole Porter put a distance between her conscious mind and the misery of the day, and she closed her eyes- despite the fact that she might find one of his dreams just behind her eyelids. But there was nothing, and for once, Anthea felt herself grow relieved that he also couldn't sleep. Since Anthea was unmarried and female, she occupied the designated living space alone. No one shared her predicament, and while being alone had it's advantages, tonight Anthea would suffer in solitude. She sang along to the tune, allowing tears to puddle on her cheeks.   
The empty carriage-house shook suddenly. Agitated, Anthea peered out the window, only to be petrified by the wail of a bomb siren. She froze, the cigarette dropping from her lips and down into the damp grass just outside before she closed her curtains and latched the windows with trembling hands. The same hands carefully removed the record from the turntable and extinguished the lights before crawling under the kitchen table. She wept. Tough Anthea melted into a puddle of fear. She was tired. She had never enjoyed bomb sirens when she was living in the city, but after she was assaulted by the American, Anthea grew sensitive to most things. This was not the exception ... The ominous echoing of three thuds against her door didn't shake her as she wailed softly. Anthea had been thrown into a panic attack, and she rocked back and forth with her head between her legs. The thudding at the door repeated itself again, this time more frantic, before a key popped open the lock and Mycroft slipped inside waving a lantern, his voice just above a whisper. Panic seeped into his tone the moment her sobs could be heard over the din of the siren, which rang for the first time ever  
on that night.   
"My lov-" his frantic endearment was cut short and sanitized.   
"Anthea. Are you here?" He panted softly, leaning against the wall before he detected her movement under the table and wandered over, crouching before he assessed the situation and carefully sat, pulling Anthea out from under the table like you might with a doll. She fought back for a moment, her hand balled into a trembling fist. Her weak resistance was nothing against his instinct. "You're safe, I have you" came his insistent whisper.   
He carefully carried her soft body into the cellar, fumbling only slightly in the darkness as his hand caressed her bare thigh. She weakened her resolve as the sirens stopped. In the quiet of the tiny bomb shelter just under her kitchen, she finally regained full control over her sensory perception. Mycroft had carried his lantern down after her, and the dim yellow light illuminated the damp dirt of the floor and the unpainted brick of the foundational walls. Anthea, who had been changed for bed wearing only a men's cotton undershirt and novelty silk knickers bearing the inscription 'off limits' suddenly realized how exposed she was. She blinked a few times and slunk away from him and she light.   
"Why are you here, Field-Marshall?" Anthea managed, only to be countered by Mycroft, who hardened his posture and averted his gaze. He answered as though it was obvious.   
"Because I needed to see you."   
It took Anthea a while to process his words. In the silence, he shed his grey jumper and leaned forward to drape the large, uncharacteristic cable-knit over her bare legs. The light danced over the thin, intricate pattern of stretch marks on her thighs, and he found himself staring at the majesty of her before he caught himself, remembering the state he found her in. Anthea pulled the jumper onto herself, thumbing the knit of it to find some calm. A thud came from above ground, visibly startling her enough that Mycroft instinctively pulled her into his arms again, this time maintaining his firm hold on her as he brushed his lips over the top of her head and ran his fingers through her hair. "You left your diary- book- your copy of Pride and Prejudice. I Originally came over to return it... But when I was faced with the opportunity, I needed to see you." Somehow, the deep baritone of his voice eased her manic anxiety. His hold made her physical fear evaporate and she was soothed enough to wrench herself from his grasp in indignation. The jumper fell from her lap as she stood, arms crossed over her chest. Betrayal flashed over her facial features, followed closely by embarrassment.   
"You read it?" The mania returned as she paced, her voice coming out pained as she kept it hushed. He remained seated, clearly hurt.   
"I... I saw that there was text and I flipped through it. I thought I might've found one of your code journals... But it was all about me."   
She blushed furiously, wiping the tear from her cheek with such energy that her hand hit the wall on it's way back to her side. Mycroft stood, panic fluttering in his eyes as he saw her shy away from him. Her back hit the wall and she slunk to the floor. "It was private" she mumbled.   
He crouched to meet her eye and handed the copy back to her. It served no purpose in his back pocket, he reasoned, his nose wiggling to keep the tears from rising in his eyes. He was disappointed that he hadn't noticed some of her defining qualities. Her eyes had flecks of gold, she had freckles on her nose, she had the softest skin he had ever felt, and she was stubborn. So goddamn stubborn it was infuriating. He reached out to caress her face, and was immediately overcome by a wave of feelings, which coursed through him like lightening. He lunged forward, lips pressing against Anthea's with aggression, his hands on her sides, then on her back, then under her ass, his fingers buried deep in her soft flesh. Anthea's contributions were no-less passionate. After the initial shock of his lips against hers, she let out a primal moan as he picked her up. She straddled him, her back against the wall as she undid his fly, her bottom carelessly resting on a large wooden crate. He deepened the kiss as she undid the buttons on his pants, her lips against his neck.   
Anthea forced herself back into a proper frame of mind, her cold hand against his chest as she caught her breath, head slung low. She turned her face to avoid a reprisal of his kisses. "You don't want me as your mate. You just want me. For pleas-" Mycroft's fist cracked against the wall before Anthea could finish her thought. She flinched and he felt an instant regret, his voice brimming over with desperation as he responded to her accusation. "I would like you to move into the manor with me. I have the left wing as my private living space, and I want to make you mine..." His fingers danced over her mark and she gulped, thrown back into passion as she slipped her knickers off.   
"I'm already yours," she responded, her hands on his buttocks, her head buried in his clavicle. "I'm already, totally yours."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this train wreck. I promise that this is the worst, and it only gets better from here. 
> 
> Let me know if I should continue!


End file.
